B is silent a moment, frowning at the game table, but not thinking about the score. Lark is really into this. Even if Steve does move out, anyway, he says. Lark got him the bath stuff for his birthday. Lark got him a damn electronic piano so he could play even when the art room is closed, when Steve was in his coma. Lark sleeps as a wolf sometimes with his head on B's surely-not-very-comfortable steel-toed boots.

On occasion, B can think of something outside his own head. And he's not stupid.

"Lark," he realizes. "You don't want me there for Steve." Or, well, not just just for Steve. "If he moves out. You won't have anybody in there with you, either."